


at the heart of it all

by banksoflochlomond



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actually just straight up murder, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Includes Elements of S4 but does not actually go down that route, John and Sherlock Both Have Lots of Problems, John is Redbeard, M/M, Magical Realism, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prophecy, Their Future was Foreseen as Problematic, because honestly a cool idea that was executed so terribly y'all, kind of a Soulmate AU, why do they keep doing that with the good franchises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banksoflochlomond/pseuds/banksoflochlomond
Summary: John's prophecy was that he would "live, die, and kill for his Love, again and again."Later on--much, much later on, it would be described as the most powerful prophecy borne in the last century, if not longer than that.Shame that it took John near forty years to actually care about and understand it, though.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

Prophecies, like so many other pieces of the world, belong mostly to the rich.

So it is shocking, to say the least, when a soothsayer walks into Vera Watson’s hospital room, decked out in expensive purple velvet robes and gem-crammed jewelry that Vera had never even dared of dreaming to afford.

The soothsayer stares at the baby, lying in his plastic bassinet and wrapped in cheap, blue-striped swaddling blankets. Her eyes are silver and lined with heavy kohl. Somewhat absurdly, a hospital vistor’s badge is pinned to her draping robes. Even soothsayers must check in with reception, Vera thinks in the galloping, sweaty way that thoughts are thought, when one is anxious.

Vera leans over to her bassinet and picks up John, still so small and sleepy, and tucks him into her chest. “Please tell me it isn’t anything bad,” Vera says softly, because she knows--she _knows_ her position. She is an apprentice baker and her husband joined up with the armed services because his gig as a local janitor hadn’t been paying the bills for their small family, and they’d defaulted on payments for their rent even still, had to move to a smaller town while Vera was four months pregnant with John. If there is a soothsayer visiting _her_ baby, instead of a politician’s or a pop star’s or even an investment banker’s, then it almost certainly means that John will do something Bad. Will be _destined_ to do something Bad.

“Please tell me it isn’t anything bad,” Vera repeats, even though she knows that the soothsayer will only deliver the prophecy, because that was her job. It wasn’t to appease working-class mothers--hell, she wasn’t even supposed to _be_ in front of a working-class mother.

The soothsayer observes the hospital room in the dry, vacant way that all soothsayers do. She doesn’t even feel like a human presence, standing in the room. She feels gauzy and cold to Vera, and Vera presses John further into her chest without meaning to. She hopes she won’t wake him up.

Finally, then, the soothsayer’s eyes settle onto John. Her eyes seem to spark, breathe in the entire life of John Watson. When she speaks, her voice is deep and smooth, but oddly gentle.

“John Watson will live, die, and kill for his Love, again and again.”

***

It should be noted that, although prophecies do concentrate in the wealthier classes, prophecies are not hereditary, and neither is the art of soothsaying. Some are simply born with fate clinging to their bones, and while it is common enough for people to know about, that is not to say that it is common at all.

So it is shocking for Charles and Magdelena Watson when all of their children warrant a visit from a soothsayer.

It is the same soothsayer who comes to visit them, as well (all three times that they welcome their children). 

The eldest, Mycroft, was only awarded a two-word prophecy: “Remember Redbeard.”

(The youngest, Eurus, was not given a prophecy at all. Instead, the soothsayer predicted Eurus’s soothsaying abilities: “I see her as though I see myself, in an opaque and twisted looking glass.”)

Mycroft’s prophecy was never told to Sherlock. Sherlock had known of its existence, of course, but he was never told what it actually _was_ _._ Sherlock had always shelved this fact as Mycroft lording this knowledge over Sherlock. Especially since Mycroft knew Sherlock’s prophecy. And Sherlock hated it.

Because Sherlock’s prophecy was the greatest proof of Sherlock’s weakness. Perhaps the _only_ proof that had haunted him for years and years, at least until the prophecy actually began to unfold.

The soothsayer, with her unsettling silver eyes lined with kohl and heavy dark robes, had told Magdelena: “Sherlock Holmes’s Heart will always matter more to him than his mind.”

***

John lived under his mother’s thumb for the first ten years of his life.

He lived under his dad’s, too, whenever his dad was back home. Hell, even Harry, who mostly ignored and resented her little brother (“I bet you think you’re better than me, don’t you, _John?_ So fucking noble, ain’tya, with a fucking prophecy to back up how muchofa posh prat you are,”), seemed to freak out whenever John nicked his finger on a cutting board or returned home from rugby practice only a few minutes later than he said he’d be.

To be completely honest, John thought that they were all blowing things out of proportion. Just because his prophecy had the word “die” in it, didn’t mean much of anything, at least to John. Everyone died eventually, and if he ended up dying for something he loved, then that was better than going from a stupid car accident or cancer or something.

(What John was more concerned about was the _killing_ part.)

But things changed when John was ten. Drastically, actually, and it wasn’t due to anything his mum or dad or Harry do; they don’t ever get how overprotective they were being, really.

Rather, John understands, for the first time, how dangerous his prophecy really was.

It all starts on a two-week vacation to Cornwall.

***

When Sherlock was six, his family spent half a summer at Cornwall.

This is essentially all that Sherlock knows about the trip. He figures he must have deleted it out of boredom. He remembers very few things about it: the wind, the coldness of gritty sand when he dug his toes into the sand. The taste of saltwater on his cheeks and lips.

And Redbeard.

He was a dog that Sherlock had managed to adopt, at least during the day times. He’d been Sherlock’s favorite thing in the world, and Sherlock had played with him all the time. He’d been a slightly older dog, but so sweet and kind and Sherlock wanted to keep Redbeard with him, always.

And then Redbeard was gone, and Sherlock thinks it’s because they left Cornwall without saying goodbye to him, before Sherlock could convince his parents to let Sherlock keep Redbeard.

He was--well, he was heartbroken. Or at least an equivalent. Try as he might, to suppress everything he feels, to shove it all underneath mountains of data and information in his mind, Sherlock knows that he’ll never truly be able to fool his family, because they know his prophecy. They know that he’s been doomed to his feelings ever since he took his first breath. Not that that ever stopped Mycroft from trying to train Sherlock.

But Mycroft had backed off from his “lessons” about valuing the mind over the heart, after Cornwall. That was the other notable thing about that summer. It was as though Mycroft had developed a sudden respect for Sherlock’s feelings, when he’d only labeled them as a weakness before. 

Sherlock caught Mycroft staring into the middle distance a lot, in the months after Cornwall. Their mum always made Mycroft a cup of tea whenever that happened and delivered it to him with a hand on the shoulder--the only affection Mycroft was willing to receive when he was twelve. 

More embarrassingly, Sherlock remembers breaking down one afternoon in the garden. He’d been trying to play pirates, had dragged out one of their old wooden kitchen chairs and was treating it as his boat, and he’d seen something move out of the corner of his eye but when he turned, he saw nothing at all.

He’d started crying then, something that welled up from deep inside him. He didn’t know why he was crying, then--Sherlock suspects that it had been a momentary lapse of humanity, something that six-year-olds did when they were overly tired or hungry--but when he looked up, Mycroft was there, staring at him solemnly.

“If you call me silly, I’ll tell Mum,” Sherlock said, wiping furiously at his cheeks. But they had both known that he wouldn’t. Sherlock hated his heart as much as Mycroft seemed to.

But Mycroft had just shaken his head, then, and sat down, right in the middle of the garden. He never did that, for fear of getting dirt on his trousers--Mycroft _hated_ mess. Sherlock stared at him. “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked warily.

Mycroft just shook his head again. “I am so very sorry, Sherlock,” he said. His face was so serious for being so young. It seemed lined, but instead of age, by knowledge, like Mycroft’s too-big brain had already begun to wrinkle his skin. 

“You don’t even know what I’m crying for,” Sherlock argued. He threw down the twig he’d been pretending was a swashbuckling sword. “And I know that, because _I_ don’t know what I’m crying for, so you can’t deduce my reasons for being upset.”

Traitorous tears kept sliding out of the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, even as he tried to get angry at Mycroft. “And furthermore, you at the last of the cherry tarts that Mum made, even though Mum said they were to be equally split, so if anything you’re just making it _worse_ for me, and--” 

Sherlock choked on a sob without meaning to. 

Mycroft just sighed and wrapped both of his arms around Sherlock. “I know you miss him,” Mycroft said. “Believe me when I say that if there were any way to have stopped what happened to him, I would have found it.”

“He was just a _dog,_ ” Sherlock said, squirming in Mycroft’s embrace. Mycroft hugging him felt odd. He’d never hugged Sherlock before. “We only left him in Cornwall, Mycroft. That can’t be why I’m crying, you idiot.”

Mycroft had grown still, then. Sherlock read tension in the sudden stiffness of his muscles, and pulled back to see if he could read Mycroft’s expression better and discern what effects his words truly had on Mycroft. He’d only spoken the truth.

Mycroft’s face had been pieced together, though, so carefully blank that it gave Sherlock chills. “You are right, of course,” Mycroft said, stilted. “I--must have come to the conclusion erroneously, little brother.”

Sherlock stared at him. “That’s not it,” he said, folding his arms. “You’re hiding something from me.”

“Not on purpose,” Mycroft said, truth leaking out of every word that he said. Sherlock frowned. How _strange._

“I think I should get Mummy some tea,” Mycroft continued, and stood up fluidly. He brushed off the seat of his trousers, and frowned at the specks of dirt still clinging to his legs. “And perhaps change.”

“What you’re doing is what they call a tactical retreat,” Sherlock called after him. 

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft said, and his gait walking away from Sherlock was stiff and measured. Incredibly odd.

That’s the memory that sticks out in Sherlock’s brain, whenever he thinks of Cornwall (which, admittedly, isn’t that much. He hardly ever examines his own childhood memories, and only refrains from deleting them because it would make Mummy upset).

So for Sherlock, it’s never very significant, in the grand scheme of things.

***

Before the war, John was still plagued by nightmares.

He never told his family what those nightmares were actually about. He led them to believe that they were faceless night terrors--silly little conjurations from his mind. Unfortunate and frustrating, but at least nothing actually real.

The nightmares began when John was ten, and they never quite ceased. Rather, they were replaced by gunshots and hot, red sand and the odd cold feeling of wearing warm blood on your skin instead of keeping it inside of you. But at least those nightmares didn’t feel quite as worn-out as the old one had.

The old one had gone like this:

_John felt a deep, ugly, sweeping pain that bled out from his left ankle. It was dark, so dark all around him, and quiet, except for the light footfalls of someone walking away from him calmly._

_John bit his tongue until he tasted blood_ (often he would do this in his sleep, as well) _, just so that he wouldn’t cry out for help, because he knew that that’s what she wanted. Instead, John stared above at the night sky, speckled and spattered with so many stars, and he told himself that he would get out of this, somehow._

_And that’s when the water would start flooding in around him. It always felt thicker and more churning than regular water, and John started pulling against the chain around his broken ankle that secured him to the lead brick. But it did nothing, no matter how hard John pulled, only ever caused John’s vision to cloud with white-hot pain._

_The water sloshed in around his chest, and then battered his neck, and John tilted his head to look up at the stars and the moon peeking out at him, illuminating the heavy, glistening bricks of the well that he’s been pushed into._

_It was always then--the moon staring at him impassively, John uselessly tugging at the chain on his ankle--that he had known that he would drown, would be lost and never found here at the bottom of this old, ancient well._

_When the water finally gets above his head, he feels an absurd kind of freedom, coupled with a building, burning hurt as his lungs cramp from too-little air._

And that’s always when he woke up.

John never explained that old nightmare, not to anyone for nearly thirty years. It wasn’t of interest to people, and also--John had no way of explaining that it was a memory.

Because people would always ask what happened next, and John would never be able to tell them the truth.

***

“The List,” Mycroft said, once Sherlock opened his eyes again.

Sherlock blinked at him a few times. He was still covered in cold sweat, eyes bloodshot and heavy in his gaunt face. He reached inside the pocket of his stained and ripped hoodie (no one wanted to sell drugs to a man wearing a waistcoat), and pulled out a bunched-up sheet of yellow lined paper. 

Mycroft took the paper, but he didn’t look at it right away. Different from the other times, then. He always examined the list first, determined whether they needed to go and seek medical help, and then reamed Sherlock out for upsetting Mummy and throwing his “considerable gifts” away. 

This time, however, Mycroft just smoothed out the paper and tucks it into his left trouser pocket. He rolled up the cuffs of his white dress shirt, and slumped against the wall. Not a good move, that. The wallpaper in the crack house was rotting, and parts of it had split away to reveal a good deal of mildew sponging against the drywall.

Sherlock frowned at Mycroft. He looked exhausted, even though he clearly had gotten at least six hours of sleep the night before after evidently solving the issue with smuggling and Chinese monasteries. 

Which meant--no, Sherlock wasn’t going to feel bad about this. It was a ploy by Mycroft, trying to guilt Sherlock into quitting. “Moving straight into reaming me out, then,” Sherlock said, pushing himself up with weak arms from the bit of mattress that he’d managed to snag for the duration of his high. “A more passive aggressive style than your usual tricks, brother, I have to say.”

“I don’t suppose I could beg a straight answer out of you, as to why you’re doing this to yourself,” Mycroft said quietly. “You never have answered me honestly.”

“As if you haven’t deduced it for yourself,” Sherlock said, snorting. “And it’s _using_ , Mycroft, it’s not addiction. I could stop any time that I like.”

“Please don’t insult yours and my intelligence like that, spinning such a neat little lie,” Mycroft said coldly. He jammed a hand into his trouser pocket, and Sherlock knew that he was playing with the edges of Sherlock’s list. Sherlock also knew that he wouldn’t like what he found there. And he would never _truly_ understand why. He couldn’t. Mycroft simply wasn’t built that way.

“Remember Redbeard?” Sherlock asked abruptly, and Mycroft went white

It was an interesting reaction--one that Sherlock had never seen elicited from his older brother. He stiffened, as if commanded to by an officer, and he fumbled with the umbrella that he’d had lightly grasped in his hand. It actually fell to the ground, and the sound seemed to ricochet like a bullet. One of the junkies in the left-hand corner of the room groaned and turned over on his side.

“What’s wrong with you? Why would you worry so much over an old pet?” Sherlock demanded Mycroft, and almost immediately he smoothed out again. Mycroft bent down to pick up his umbrella, which was a not-so-clever cover for a rifle. Boring. Mycroft always did have a predilection for old spy movies.

“Perhaps I am concerned over my brother reminiscing about trivial things while having come off his third overdose within the last eight months,” Mycroft bit out, but his eyes remained wider than usual. His grip on the cane was only just too tight to be normal.

“No, that’s not it,” Sherlock said.

“Do _you_ remember Redbeard?” Mycroft asked, mouth curved in a false smirk. “Seeing as you were six years old and a bit of a dolt at the time. Although I suppose nothing much has changed, on that front.”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock said. “That dog was everything to me. It was the only good part of Cornwall, and I missed it until I was eleven, and that’s--I was weak that way. I always would be, that soothsayer made it so, but Redbeard was the first thing to make me realize how-- _soft,_ I am.”

Mycroft sighed, and pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock,” he said, like it was an old breath finally being pressed out of his lungs.

“Of course you wouldn’t understand, because you weren’t prophesied to be _weak,_ ” Sherlock says, with a vague and undedicated sneer. His eyeballs ache in his head, and his mouth feels musty and wrong, and all he wants is to go back to sleep and ignore the comedown of everything until he can get his next fix. “It is not an addiction if it works to eliminate the ills in your body, Mycroft. I thought you knew that.”

Mycroft only shook his head, and finally took out Sherlock’s crumpled list out of his pocket. He scanned the hastily-scribbled words, only half-written with a dying ballpoint pen that Sherlock had nicked from some terrible London motel. There were too many things. It was always too many things, with Sherlock.

“Prophecy cannot change a human being, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “It only serves as a warning of intervening fate, with a person’s lifespan, and most aren’t so lucky as to experience that. Prophecy cannot make you weak. Only you can make yourself weak, and that is through blindness to your own mistakes. So taking two _metric tons_ of cocaine will not fix a problem that doesn’t exist, brother. It only creates another one. Addict.”

With most, there would be a dramatic storm-off, with feet stomping and raised voices, the whole thing. It’s Mycroft, though. He keeps his voice level throughout the entire speech, and tucks Sherlock’s list carefully into his moleskin journal that he carried with himself everywhere. Then, he twirls his umbrella once, and then twice, and finally meanders off, expensive Oxfords tapping lightly on the creaky wooden stairs that led out of the room.

  
  


***

John figures that Cornwall shaped who he was. And that’s not a good thing.

ohn remembers it vividly, in a way that childhood memories should never feel. But it’s always the bad parts. He hardly ever remembers the good parts, if he ever remembers them at all. He doesn’t know why, exactly, that is, but there are far more pressing things that he doesn’t understand about Cornwall, so. It washes away, and he lets it.

Among the things that wash away: 

Sharp wind kicking up the thin gritty sand of Cornwall’s shores, the rickety, sea-brittle house that his mother and father scraped money together to rent. There were always pill bugs and spiders between the sheets, and the bunny-eared television had too much static to ever show a clear picture.

Not that it had mattered to ten-year-old John, or even fourteen-year-old Harry. They were out of the house every morning at dawn, never came back until the sun had settled, almost seeming to sink beneath the water and into the murky depths. Sometimes, John would worry that it would drown itself there, but it always came back, as if tied to the moon's gravity, instead of it being the other way round.

It was the only time that his parents and Harry didn’t watch over John as much. The quietness of the house and the moors seemed to settle his entire family, as well. There was only the steady beat of the sea against the cliffs, and a far-off laugh here or there.

It was the laughs that John eventually decided to investigate.

Harry always wanted to lie out in the sun, thumbing through her latest romance paperback, or working on her sparse, often red and itching “tan.” But John wanted to climb and run across the little caches of shore here and there. He fancied himself a mermaid-catcher, then a kraken fighter, then a treasure hunter. He’d just transitioned to a lonely pirate, carrying a thick log as his fighting club (he couldn’t find a long enough twig to simulate a convincing sword), and he heard voices carrying, and figured they couldn’t be too far away. As a strong, brave, and curious pirate, John decided that it was in his best interest to find those people. Also, he was tired of playing alone.

John crested two hills and a rather large boulder, to finally locate the group of people in a shallow stretch of English beach. It looked like a family enjoying a holiday together--the mother was stretched out on a comfortable afghan blanket, paging through a fat textbook, while an older boy stood nearby, skipping stones out on the water. A tiny little girl stood waist-deep in the grey, choppy ocean water, and her father seemed to be watching her from the edge of the surf.

The one kid that stood out to John, however, was actually the one that noticed John before John noticed him. This is because the kid was below the boulder John stood on, beating a cheap foam sword against the flint, jagged rock. John didn’t hear the _thwap_ of the sword over the crashing ocean waves, though.

“Who dares trespass the Holmes territory?” The kid demanded, and only then does John look down, to see a mass of frizzy dark hair, barely clamped down by a cartoonish pirate’s hat.

John smiled amiably at the younger kid, and pretended to be intimidated by his sword. John raised both of his hands, like he saw criminals do to coppers in action movies, and dropped the heavy log he’d been carrying around. “Now, we wouldn’t wanna do anything too rash, would we, you swashbuckler?” 

The kid smirked at him, and looked him up and down, seemingly cataloguing all of John’s being. It was a bit disconcerting--John was used to that from teachers and older kids, but not from smaller children.

“You’re a working-class kid, dad is military, mum usually takes care of you. This is a rare holiday for you, and even though you have a recreational rugby team, you’re usually not let out of the house much, probably due to a childhood ailment. Probably around age ten, but judging from your smile and lone presence, you’re down for any kind of adventure,” the kid rattled off, rapid-fire, like a string had been pulled on his back. Then, all of a sudden, a smile grew, wide and carefree, stretching across his face. “Oh, you’ll do nicely!”

John stared at the kid as he started trying to clamber up onto the boulder with John. His legs were much too short, but it didn’t stop the kid from scrambling for different footholds. John leaned down and offered him a hand, and the kid took it without a word, using it as leverage to get up on the rock next to John. He flopped himself down, legs kicking against the stone like he was a damn propeller.

“How’d you know all that? I mean, I don’t have a chronic condition, or--ailment, you called it, I--sorry, how old are you? I’m ten,” John stammered out. 

“It’s not a sickness? That’s good, makes playing easier,” the kid said. “Just don’t tell Mycroft I got it wrong, he’d make fun of me.”

“What’s a Mycroft?” John asked, and the kid barked out a laugh at that, high and squeaky. He gestured with a tiny index finger--how old was this kid, really? He couldn’t have been more than seven, judging by stature alone, but he spoke like an adult to John--at the taller, slightly chubby kid that John had noticed skipping rocks.

“ _That’s_ Mycroft,” the kid said. “And that’s Mummy on the shore, and Daddy’s with Eurus right now. I don’t like Eurus, though. Mummy says I shouldn’t say that, considering she’s my sister and everything, but she hardly ever talks and when she does, it’s always mean in weird ways. Ways Mycroft doesn’t even understand, and he understands _everything.”_

“Thanks for letting me know,” John said, a bit confused.

“Oh! And I’m Sherlock,” the kid said. “That’s important information, I think, considering we’re going to be playing together.”

“We are?” John asked. Perhaps he should’ve felt a bit manipulated or captured by the strange kid (who on earth is named _Sherlock?)_ but all he could think about was how _accurately_ Sherlock had sized him up. It had been--extraordinary seemed too small of a term to label it.

“You’re lonely and I am too,” Sherlock said. “I hope you like playing pirates--I think it’s a bit obvious that it’s my favorite.”

“Just a bit,” John said, which allowed another bright smile to pull across Sherlock’s face. Say what you will about his manners, he was a cute kid all the same. “What wasn’t obvious was how you looked at me and--knew everything about me. How is that possible?”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, thwacking his foam sword against the boulder again, “Mycroft taught me. Always tells me to use my eyes. You’re wearing well-kept clothes, but they’re clearly secondhand, judging by the design and make of some of the brands. Your mum would buy you better clothes if she could, it’s clear--everything else about you screams that you’re well taken-care of. Shiny hair and nails, the like. So working-class, then, but with doting parents. Your hair is cut shorter than what the style usually is--it’s cropped close to your forehead and short around your ears. You asked to look like someone when you cut your hair, someone who isn’t famous because of the trends, but still a good model for a haircutter to get a close-enough match. The haircut resembles that of a soldier’s, and balance of probability is that your dad took you to get your hair cut. So you asked to look like your dad, and logic follows that your dad’s probably a soldier. 

“Also, you’ve got developed muscles for someone your age. Especially in the arms and core, so you likely do a sport to keep fit, and rugby concentrates on those muscle groups. But for someone interested in sport and the outdoors, you’re also pale, and judging by the way you’re standing in your shoes, not used to walking long distances. Walking gives you blisters, where other people would have calluses. So even though you do sport, you’re also kept indoors a lot. It’s a bit of a contradiction, so I figured your parents were overprotective considering a past medical history, but I guessed wrong. Mycroft says never to guess, but sometimes you have to, I think.”

“That’s unbelievable,” John said, eyebrows raised high up on his forehead. “How old did you say you were again?”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock said, clambering back onto his feet. “I just turned six.”

 _“Six,”_ John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Now, do you want to be Redbeard or Yellowtail?”

“What?”

“We’re playing pirates! I’m partial to Redbeard, but you can always choose,” Sherlock said. “Please refer to me as Captain Danger. I much prefer that to Sherlock.”

John shook his head in absolute wonder, and absently wondered how he’d gotten himself into all of this.

It was much better than watching Harry sunbathe, though.

“Redbeard, I suppose,” John said, and smiled as Sherlock picked up his abandoned log and gave it back to him.

“Well, Redbeard,” Sherlock said, waving around his foam sword, “We’ve got treasure and mischief to find!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, please check out my [website](https://muldoonstories.com/) for more stories. Also, I just made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/allierowell2/). Cards on the table, it's under a pseudonym because I'm a weirdo, but please talk to me on there ! Promise I'm nicer on there than I am on here, haha.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people, maybe, probably: "what are you doing if you're not updating your personal/public writing projects?"
> 
> me, staring at online tarot card readings at 2 a.m. after getting drunk on hard lemonade: "tell me i'm pretty and talented."

Most of the time, Sherlock was preoccupied with what Mycroft sometimes disparagingly called his newest addiction; that is, solving murders that the police were too shite at solving.

Sherlock knew, though, that Mycroft was relieved, even if he did think it was all a short-term thing, a reprieve that would eventually lead Sherlock back to cocaine and morphine and every other thing he could get his hands on.

It isn’t, though. Because Scotland Yard had told him in no uncertain terms that he would undergo regular drug testing, and if one came up even the slightest bit suspicious, then he’d be thrown off all cases and charged with several misdemeanors. 

Not that it would affect Sherlock much, considering his brother’s position as the British government. But still, if it came between drugs and murder mysteries--well, the mysteries occupied his mind much better, and for longer than a cocaine high.

So Sherlock took case after case after case, blazing through them like wildfire.

But in the rare moments that Sherlock wasn’t eating up his cases and spitting them back out to Scotland Yard--the rare moments where he allowed himself to idly sip at a cuppa that Mrs. Hudson made, or where he found himself struggling to properly fall asleep--it felt as though his brain always skipped back to Mycroft’s odd moment with the mention of Redbeard.

It happened years ago by now--Sherlock is in his mid-twenties now, and the memory takes place around the time that Sherlock was nineteen, he supposed (though if he were being transparent, he would admit to the effects of stimulants and amphetamines scrambling with his memory, clouding up what should have been basic fact and observation).

But he’d never seen an expression like that on Mycroft’s face. Something so inscrutable, clouded with fear and a good deal of anticipation--in short, he’d never seen Mycroft’s face break open so wide, and close off so deeply, all at the same time. And it begged the question: What was Redbeard, really?

Sherlock knew he couldn’t be just a dog. Or at the very least, he was a dog with heavy significance, especially to Mycroft.

Sherlock was missing something. And if he needled and poked, he would not get any answers. He already tried phoning his parents, but they were alarmingly evasive about the whole ordeal, not-so-subtly attempting to suss out what, in fact, he knew.

Also, his father’s voice went up a semitone, audible even over a shoddy telephone connection. It always did that when he was nervous, but not for himself--for his children. It was the same when Mycroft announced that he’d been awarded a “minor” position in the British government, the same as whenever Sherlock went off to climb on everything he could, and when Sherlock started indulging in his drug habit.

It was also a specific kind of unease that Sherlock was entirely unequipped to deal with. 

So since Sherlock couldn’t bother his parents about the memory, he resorted to simply thinking about it often. Especially when he was bored; when that insurmountable, tedious sensation took over his body, dragging his bones down to the ground with the weight of the entire world’s mundanity, Sherlock could still feel his thoughts swirl around and around Redbeard, as if caught in a kind of orbit. 

But he decided not to do anything about it. Mostly because he figured that there was nothing  _ to  _ do; Sherlock had always been great at annoying the wits out of Mycroft, but never great at getting him to divulge information that he did not intend to divulge. And any visible attempts at manipulation (and all attempts  _ were  _ visible, to Mycroft) would surely result in a caginess about the topic that would make it difficult to gather any further information.

No, it was better to wait, and see if Mycroft would slip up. After all, it wasn’t a pressing mystery--unlike other cases, such as whether the elderly Mr. Robinson really  _ did  _ die from alcohol poisoning, or if it was part of a plot by a vengeful and penniless separated wife (obviously the latter, of course, but Sherlock had to prove it to be so).

(And, also. The whole Redbeard thing--it was disconcerting. Watching Mycroft lose it, for the first time possibly ever. Hearing his mother and father attempt to keep things from him. Disconcerting to the point that Sherlock’s curiosity was nearly outweighed by his respect for his family.

Only nearly, though. Of course.)

***

“Picked up a stray, have you, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked lightly. Judging from his tight grip on his trouser pant leg, however, and the way he compulsively kept overturning the skipping stone in his other hand, it was a question borne out of nerves, rather than any level of condescension.

“Yes,” Sherlock said indignantly, anyway. “This is Redbeard, and he’s a friend. If you know what that means in reality, rather than theory, of course.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, and then glanced at John very quickly. He stopped playing with the skipping stone--it sat unmoving and uncomfortable, sharp ends prodding at the thick skin of his palm. “What did you call him, Sherlock?”

“You never ask me to repeat myself, and you get annoyed when you have to do it,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms. The foam sword flops out from under his armpit. John stifled a laugh at the image of a cross, six-year-old pretend pirate.

“Ah, he called me Redbeard,” John said, after a moment of Sherlock staring down Mycroft, and Mycroft’s eyes only seeming to get wider. For such a clever older brother, as Sherlock had described, he seemed awfully caught out, all things considered. “But my real name’s--”

“Oh, don’t,” interrupted Sherlock. “Our pirate names are so much more interesting. Mycroft refuses to refer to me as Captain Danger, though.”

“Why Redbeard?” Mycroft asked suddenly, a sour tinge to his voice. “Where did you hear that name?

“I made it up,” Sherlock said.

“He’s not even redheaded,” Mycroft said, somewhat hotly. He was squeezing his skipping stone so hard, it seemed as though he were trying to break it into pieces. Sherlock frowned at him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you so bothered by all of it? You called it a silly pirate game and told me you’d have no part in it, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sucked in a breath, suddenly and uncomfortably. “I’m going to go have a chat with Mummy,” Mycroft said. He squeezed his fists even harder, and then, noticing that his knuckles were pressing white and ugly against a skipping stone, dropped it back to the beach. He reached up to run a hand through the hair near his temples, and then headed up the rocky beach, refusing to look at John, for some reason.

John and Sherlock watched him go. John felt a bit bemused. “Your brother’s a bit odd,” he told Sherlock. Then, upon further inspection: “I suppose you are too, though.”

“That’s not a problem, is it?” Sherlock asked, whipping out his foam sword from under his armpit and using it to aim at John’s chest. John snorted, and picked up the “club” that he’d been dragging around, the one that Sherlock had insisted on John taking with him even if John was scared about accidentally hurting Sherlock with it. Sherlock insisted he didn’t mind, and would prefer his fellow pirate to have a weapon.

“Course not,” John said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Sherlock smiled, and immediately jabbed at John’s chest. John only just managed to deflect with a rough parry from his club. “En garde!” Sherlock shouted gleefully, and reached up to adjust his flopping pirate hat as he lunged in again.

“I’m not sure that that’s what pirates shout, when they’re battling,” John said, laughing, as he ducked another one of Sherlock’s attempts to hit John. 

Sherlock just giggled at him and kept on his offensive, leaving John with no room to focus on anything but Sherlock.

Not even on the little girl, the one that Sherlock described as his mean sister. Even though she was staring at them as they played, wearing no expression at all. 

***

John’s father survived his military service.

He was discharged after fifteen satisfactory years in the service, and acclimated to civilian life fairly well. Sure, there were things that were inevitably kept from John and Harry, things to be sorted between him and Vera and therapy sessions and group counseling to attend, but there seemed to be nothing inherently wrong with him after his military service, and the simple and true explanation for this appearance was that it seemed to be a normal and good transition because it _ was _ .

So when John announced his plans to become an army doctor, his mother’s reaction seemed a bit...out of the blue, to say the least.

She started weeping. A lot, actually.

“Mum?” John asked, setting down his knife and fork. He stared at her. He knew it wouldn’t be an easy announcement, but she was dabbing at her eyes with her napkin, making choked sob noises. It had been fast, as well. Like someone turning on a faucet.

“Oh, I knew it would come to this,” she said, and started hiccuping. His father stood from his place at the table, and moved around to place a hand on her shoulder. She shook her head, and Mr. Watson sighed heavily.

“Mum,” John said again, “It’s something I want to do--something that Dad did as well. I’ll be a medic, anyway, it’s not as if--”

“The prophecy, John,” his father said, quietly, and John blinked once, and then twice, and then threw his napkin on the table. He was hard-pressed not to pick up his steak knife and throw it at something.

“Not this bloody thing again,” John said.

“It makes sense,” his mum said. Tears were still streaming down her face. John wondered if they were crocodile tears, and then immediately regretted the thought. Vera Watson was too kind for that. Just a baker, and not much else.

“So what if it does,” John said. “I can’t be kept from the things I want to do in life.”

“You’ll  _ die, _ ” his mother said, lips pressed together in a trembling line. 

“I think that you’re forgetting the ‘again’ part of the whole thing,” John said, and then immediately realized his mistake. He sighed as his mother let out a real fucking wail, and turned to stare up at the ceiling.

“Son,” his father said. His voice was always soothing, straightforward and wallowing. Time spent in the military made him even; his natural coolness made him slow and careful. “Your mother is afraid that you will--be tortured, or hurt. She always has been, since the day after you were born. If you choose to do this, it’s like you’re putting yourself in unnecessary danger.”

John bit his lip, and then his cheek, and then his tongue. His jaw worked from side to side. Absurdly, John wished that Harry were with him, and then he absolutely didn’t wish that at all. She may have been a distraction to his mother, but for all the wrong reasons, since she’d come out.

“Please don’t do this,” his mother said, and nope, John was out of this whole thing. 

He stood up and picked up his half-eaten roast, moving over and dumping it into the sink.

“What are you doing?” His mother asked, her voice clinging too hard onto the last, upticked syllable as he stormed into the hallway. Her voice carried, and a moment later, she was standing in the foyer with him, arms crossed tight across her chest. John’s father stood behind her, quiet and still as he always was, as he always would be.

“It’s my decision,” John said. “I wanted to be a doctor, and this is how I want to pay off the bills, and you can’t--” John took a deep breath, and turned to the coat rack next to the front door. He gripped onto his black winter jacket with two white-knuckled fists, and told himself to breathe. He and Harry always had problems with anger management. 

“You can’t tell me what I can or cannot do,” John said. “You’ve been--my whole life, I...oh, God. Look, it’s my decision. If you can’t accept it, then. Fine.”

He shrugged on the jacket, and his mother said, “Don’t do this, don’t  _ leave, _ John, oh, I just don’t want to lose you, not like this!”

“You  _ already have,  _ before, that’s the thing!” John shouted, and then immediately froze. He closed his eyes, and all he could think of was chest-deep icy water and glistening gray stones. He opened them to see the faces of his mother and father. His father stared at the floor instead of at John.

His mother, however, had her mouth pressed shut again, but it was a different look. Harder, formed differently on her mouth. She wouldn’t stop looking away from John. “This is about Harry, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” John said, even if he hadn’t meant it to be. Maybe he had, a bit. He didn’t know at that point what he was thinking. Maybe he thought that if he looked up at the ceiling, he’d see the moon and stars spread out against an uncaring sky again, and he’d be ten years old and he’d still be realizing that after all this time, his mother couldn’t stop what was happening to him, what was always going to happen to him.

His mother, who looked after him so desperately, who called him twice a week while he was at university, who baked bread and had smile lines around her eyes, and who had thrown Harry not to come back and visit after she’d said that she had a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend.

“Fuck,” John said, and his father said, halfheartedly, “Language.”

“Yes, well, I’m a grown fucking adult, aren’t I,” John said. “And one who’s going into the military, and who got drinks with Harry last night, and I will  _ again, _ because she’s fucking struggling and it’s both of your faults.”

John threw open the front door and slammed it shut behind him, hurrying down the front door. He zipped up the jacket, shoving his hands so deep into his pockets he hears the slight pop signifying the beginning of a burst seam.

John didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care at  _ all. _

In fact, he scratched his nails deeper into the pockets, nails catching on the sewn threads until they came apart. Until John can stick his index and middle fingers into the ragged inside material of his jacket.

_ That’s _ how much he didn’t fucking care. 

He was willing to destroy it further, that’s how much. Enjoyed it, even.

Fuck.

***

The third day that John crested the two hills and boulder to play pirates with Sherlock, Sherlock’s parents invited him to dinner while almost all of the family was sitting together, taking a quick snack break. (Sherlock’s odd little sister was standing, staring out at the ocean waves. Sherlock’s family didn’t seem to want to disturb her.)

Sherlock’s mum handed him an apple, and politely inquired as to whether he’d like to join them for dinner.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” John said, smiling a bit. He turned the apple that Mrs. Holmes had given him over and over in his hand. “They worry over me, quite a lot actually. They’re fine with me being back by dinnertime, but usually they don’t allow me even that much freedom.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft said. “It’s not a childhood ailment, as Sherlock likely guessed, though.”

Sherlock sighed and whacked at Mycroft with the foam sword, causing Mycroft to spill a good deal of his crisps. Mycroft gasped in outrage, and Sherlock said, “Honestly, you probably needed that,” causing his mother to level him with a disappointed look.

“Ah, no,” John said. His smile grew a bit strained, and he turned the apple over in his hand again. “It’s a prophecy that’s always got my mum on edge, I’m afraid.”

He expected a bit of fanfare--there usually was, with some kids asking over and over again what it was, and some accusing him outright of being a criminal (bit of a stigma, having a prophecy as a working-class kid), and still others gasping at him, developing sudden stars in their eyes.

(Honestly, it’s not like he’s even  _ done  _ anything yet. Probably wouldn’t ever, either, considering the tight eye his mother kept on him at all times.)

Instead, the Holmes parents laughed. Mycroft gave him a slight inquisitive look, a step up from the usual cursory glances that John had received, and Sherlock almost looked--well, empathetic seemed to be the wrong word for the boy (he’d announced to John loudly, yesterday, that John’s older sister likely wanted him dead, or at least to never have existed), but there was a lack of better words to use, all the same.

“We know a bit about troublesome prophecies,” Mr. Holmes said, smiling. “And our Eurus will be doling them out, soon enough.”

“She’s a soothsayer?” John asked suddenly, craning his head to look over at Eurus. Or, well. Where Eurus  _ had  _ been. The spot near the surf was deserted.

“Heart,” he heard someone say from directly behind him.

John whirled around, and she was right there in front of him. Her icy blue eyes seemed a bit--vacant, actually. Bit strange, considering.

Still, John remembered his manners that his mother had forcibly drilled into him, and extended a hand to the little girl. Though she stood above him, her short stature meant that she did not tower over him at all, only clearing an inch or two above John’s head.

“My name’s not Hart, actually, it’s--”

“It’s Redbeard,” Sherlock said, somewhat crossly. John turned back to look at him.

“I know you prefer me being called that, but it’s not actually my real name, Sherlock,” John said amiably.

“It’s more interesting than real names,” Sherlock said.

“You let  _ me  _ call you by your real name,” John said.

“ _ That’s  _ because mine’s interesting! Yours is probably  _ boring, _ like Victor or Trevor or something.”

“Well that’s just…” John stopped, and then thought about it, and thought about his name. He screwed his mouth up, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bright-looking smile that John had already begun to associate with Sherlock’s  _ winning  _ face. “It is, actually. More boring than Victor and Trevor, probably combined.”

“Told you so,” Sherlock said. His mother shook her head, smiling amiably and running a hand through Sherlock’s hair before he ducked his way out of her grip.

“Heart,” Eurus said again, somewhat more insistently.

“I’m sorry?” John asked politely, while Sherlock turned on his sister and said, crossly, “Stop being odd, for  _ once  _ in your life, Eurus.”

Mycroft was staring at Eurus strangely, though. His eyes kept darting between her and John, as if he were trying to untangle an invisible web that threaded the two of them together.

“Heart, and Love,” Eurus said, more definitively, turning to face Sherlock. Like that was supposed to mean something.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Stop trying to be mysterious, Eurus,” he said. “Learn to have some fun, once in a while.”

“Fun?” Eurus repeated, her eyes going distant. “How would I do that?”

John squirmed uncomfortably, and his fingernails started digging into the apple that he still held in his hands. Eurus really was creepy. Her presence felt like a strange chill, like her body was made up of cold front winds and slashing rain, rather than just flesh and blood. He wondered if this was a common trait for soothsayers, or if it was just how Eurus was.

Sherlock, somewhat blithely, said, “I dunno, mess around. Especially with things you shouldn’t mess around with. Or find a friend and play with them, that’s always good. Speaking of which--John, we’ve been sitting around long enough. There are pirates to battle and treasure to find!”

He grabbed onto John’s hands insistently, causing John to drop his apple. It rolled away from the Holmes’ blankets and towels, picking up grit and pebbles on its skin until it rolled all the way into the ocean. The descent wasn’t long; only a few seconds at best. This particular stretch of beach was rocky and steep, leading straight into the mouth of the surf quickly and somewhat severely.

John watched the apple roll away as he stood up, and then realized that Eurus was fixated on the apple as well. She stared at it until it disappeared into the choppy waters, and then her big, distant gray-blue eyes came up to stare at John, making direct eye contact with him for a second or two as Sherlock pulled John up to one of the nearby boulders.

For a second, John could have sworn that he saw an odd, blank smile stretch its way across Eurus’s face, as unnatural and painful as the sound of a siren, or perhaps a gunshot wound.

And then it was gone, and John turned to face Sherlock as they clambered up the side of one of the boulders.

“Your sister  _ is  _ very creepy,” John said. “Especially for a four-year-old.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath of air, hoisting himself up and leaning down to lend a hand to John, even though John was much larger and stronger than him. “Tell me about it,” he said.

Then he clapped his hands, a sure sign that he was growing bored and wanted to change the subject. “Now, where can we find you a sword?”

***

Sherlock has to speak with a soothsayer for a case.

He  _ has  _ to--there’s no other way around it. A woman murdered her husband after learning of his prophecy, and with his parents already deceased, and the woman refusing to explain what the prophecy  _ was, _ then there’s no way to prove that the woman actually did murder him. Everyone, including Scotland Yard, believes that Mr. Nguyen was killed by a jealous coworker and opponent (Mr. Nguyen was an accomplished competitive darts player), but Sherlock  _ knows  _ that it was his wife.

He only needs the prophecy to bait her into a confession. 

For some reason, though, Sherlock doesn’t want to meet with the soothsayer.

He managed to uncover Mr. Nguyen’s hospital records, where the soothsayer’s name was listed, as well as the vague note that Mr. Nguyen had received a prophecy. Prophecies were never recorded, never a matter of public record; only the fact that someone  _ had  _ one could be looked up, but the actual contents of the prophecy were considered personal and private. The only people qualified to speak about their prophecies were the recipients, the recipients’ families, and the soothsayers themselves. And soothsayers often didn’t have a problem divulging prophecies; for them, they were everyday, common occurrences.

So talking to the soothsayer about Mr. Nguyen’s prophecy should have been relatively easy, considering the other things he’s had to do to solve cases. 

But Sherlock doesn’t want to.

He can’t figure out why not, either; it’s not as if soothsayers are dangerous. Off-putting, sure, but  _ Sherlock _ was considered off-putting, too. Soothsayers were often a bit distant, a bit dislike-able. Like a low electric current; not enough to fully shock you, but unpleasant enough if you accidentally come into contact with it. And still, soothsayers can have families, lovers, children. Off-putting, but not unperson-able. Not anything to shy away from.

But the thought of talking to Mr. Nguyen’s soothsayer puts a strange, cold taste in Sherlock’s mouth. It makes him bite his cheeks without meaning to, and he found his leg jumping up and down the other day while considering the prospect. He’s usually so in control of his body, that this unconscious motion actually frightened him a bit.

Sherlock considers cancelling his appointment with the soothsayer. Then he considers moving it up earlier in the week, so he could get it over with. Then he catches himself bouncing his leg again, scowls, and reaches for the carton of cigarettes he’d stored in a shallow rip at the back of his couch. 

After three cigarettes, Sherlock sighed, and pulled out his mobile.

“I do hope it’s nothing urgent, seeing as I’m in the midst of negotiating a treaty for a civil war,” Mycroft said calmly.

Sherlock exhaled a breath of smoke, and licked at his top lip. “Is it a war that’s even begun?” 

“Confidential.”

“As always,” Sherlock said. “I was hoping you could look up a prophecy for a recently deceased Robert Nguyen.”

“Is this for a case?” Mycroft asked. “You usually prefer if I stay away from your...ah,  _ consulting  _ business.”

“His prophecy isn’t a matter of public record, but it’s likely available to you and your ‘minor’ department in the government,” Sherlock said, tapping out some ash onto the top cushion of his couch. He’d gotten it while he was thrifting and high, anyway, and it was a  _ horrendous  _ paisley color. Sherlock only kept the couch around because it disgusted Mycroft whenever he took it upon himself to visit.

Sherlock’s next drag must have been somewhat audible, because Mycroft asked, somewhat crossly, “Are you smoking?”

“Only a cigarette, dear brother,” he said. “So. Nguyen’s prophecy. Do you have the information?”

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “As surprising as it may seem to you, the British government doesn’t encroach on all facets of a person’s life. Besides, there was a bit of a squabble with the United Nations a few years ago, concerning Saudi Arabia and unfair profiling of children based on received prophecies. And Britain wanted to stay on the right side of history, for once.”

“So you dumped all the physical documents in case a human rights agency caught wind of your stores,” Sherlock surmised. “It must be digitized, though. It’s the twenty-first century, and you’ve never been one to stick to tradition, unless it comes to your stupid umbrella.”

“It’s a statement piece,” Mycroft said primly.

“It’s a useless piece of protection,” Sherlock said. “A handgun would be more effective, or some self-defense classes if you’d prefer. It may help your physique, anyway.”

“My access to the digitized files...if they  _ happened  _ to exist--it’s carefully monitored,” Mycroft said icily.

“By whom? You don’t have any higher authority, as far as I’m aware,” Sherlock said, puffing out smoke through his nose. “It’s just  _ one  _ prophecy, Mycroft.”

“I cannot justify accessing that information for your purposes.” 

Dimly, so quiet that it could have been mistaken for a bit of static over the line, there was a sound of delicate typing, before Mycroft piped up again and said, “And besides, Mr. Peters, Nguyen’s soothsayer, is still alive, albeit retired. Why not speak with him and get the information directly from the source?”

“You’re researching my case, but you won’t get me the  _ one piece  _ of information I need?” Sherlock asked, sitting up from his languid, stretched-out position on the couch. “I assumed that my brother controlling the entire country would give me benefits, from time to time.”

“Why won’t you speak with Peters?” Mycroft asked calmly, ignoring Sherlock’s (righteously and deservedly) indignant tone.

Sherlock sighed, and took a lengthy drag of his cigarette, languishing in it. Then he took another, and another, before he finally spoke, exhaling loud into his phone’s speaker.

“I don’t want to.”

“You’re usually so passionate about your cases,” Mycroft said. A lesser man could have taken his tone for a flat, sarcastic one, but Sherlock heard the question that he'd posed.

“Soothsayers unsettle me,” Sherlock said, purposely brash, purposely careless in the way he threw his vowels and consonants around.

Oddly enough, Mycroft didn’t call him out on this little piece of theater. He didn’t mock Sherlock for this common, mundane sentiment, either, or even inquire sarcastically as to whether Sherlock was actually feeling frightened of speaking to someone.

Instead, Mycroft said, somewhat tiredly, somewhat quietly, “Right. Of course.”

Then: “Best of luck with your case, Sherlock.”

And then he hung up the phone, without any flourish or even a goodbye. 

Sherlock stared at his phone screen for a while before he flipped it closed again.

He stubbed his cigarette out on the armchair and reached into the carton again, fishing out a cigarette with his left hand as his right grasped at the lighter stuck in the pocket of his bathrobe.

Sherlock lit the cigarette and sat there for a long, indefinite amount of time, his mind occupied with an entirely different mystery than Mr. Nguyen’s death.

(The next morning, a manila file was sitting on Sherlock’s doorstep, with a printed transcript of Nguyen’s prophecy and a signed confirmation of the prophecy’s veracity by Mr. Peters. The file was crisp and the font was Garamond, instead of the standard Times New Roman--both trademarks of Mycroft’s work. But there wasn’t any signature from Mycroft, or a dry handwritten note on the inside cover.

Sherlock used the prophecy to spring a confession out of Mrs. Nguyen--as it turned out, Mr. Nguyen had been predicted to be his wife’s downfall. Mrs. Nguyen had killed him out of both resentment and fear of the prophecy coming to pass, inadvertently sealing her own fate.

All in all, a boring mystery.

Mycroft’s behavior, on the other hand…

Sherlock memorized and stored all of his actions in the same place he kept Mycroft’s statements and reactions regarding Redbeard.

Odd, indeed.)

***

When John first awoke, he didn’t notice the little girl standing next to his bed.

He sat up in his bed, listening to the sea-salt-soaked bed frame creak underneath him as he moved. The gritty, sandy sheets pooled into his lap, and John stretched his neck, looking around the tiny bedroom. It was a new moon that night, so there was only faint starlight to see by, especially so late at night. In the twin bed three feet over, he saw the vague outline of Harry, deep asleep and snoring lightly.

John frowned and wondered why he woke up.

And then he noticed the pair of bright, shining grey eyes right next to him.

He jumped, and just barely avoided screaming as a high-pitched, monotonous voice came seeping out of the darkness: “Calm down, Heart.”

John blinked again, and then once more. The grey eyes coalesced into a small, prim face, serious and blank as ever. “Eurus?” 

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was in a controlled, soft monotone, sounding every bit like the wind scraping across the old splintered wood of the Watsons’ rented cabin.

“What are you even--how did you--?”

“Quiet,” Eurus said, and then morphed her face into something...unpleasant. John only realized that it was meant to be a smile, of sorts, before it dropped back down again. “I doubt you’d want to wake your sister at this hour.”

“What are you  _ doing  _ here?” John demanded, but did heed her advice to lower his voice into a harsh whisper.

Eurus frowned. That expression seemed much more natural on her face. “Sherlock’s missing.”

“I--what?” John immediately kicked his legs over to the side of the bed and jumped to his feet. “Have you let your parents know? Where could he be? Why would he…?”

Eurus shook her head. “He’s got a habit of doing so,” she said, and not for the first time, John was struck by how unsettling she was. How adult, how otherworldly, how  _ cold  _ she was. “I’m able to find him most of the time, on account of my being a soothsayer. But I need your help this time.”

“I...Eurus…” John risked a glance over to his sleeping sister, and then to the analog clock on the wall. It was too dark to see where the hour hand was pointing to, but John was willing to bet that it was late.  _ Really  _ late. Eurus shouldn’t be here.

Sherlock shouldn’t be missing.

The thought turned his stomach more than he thought it would.

“Please,” Eurus said blankly. “I can usually find him before dawn. But your energies are tied up with his. I need your help to find him. I wouldn’t want to worry our parents, or let them know that this has happened before. Please.”

John swallowed. “We’re just kids, Eurus, it’s probably better for the adults to--”

Eurus said, “There’s no  _ time, _ ” with a cutting edge to her voice. In the darkness of night, John could be forgiven for mistaking it for urgency.

“I...okay,” John said, and reached under his bed, slipping on his trainers without regard to the tied-up laces, or how the tongues pulled back uncomfortably, bunching over themselves. He reached into his bedside dresser and pulled out the old fluorescent flashlight that he’d found on the first day at the Cornwall cabin. It was dim, controlled by leaky, acidic batteries, but still worked fairly well.

Eurus grinned, and her teeth lit up bright, reflecting the moonlight. “Great,” she said, and grabbed onto John’s elbow. She was so short she needed to reach up on her tiptoes to get a good hold, and then she started tugging him toward the bedroom door. Her footsteps were eerily silent, while John’s feet caused the old floorboards to creak and groan.

  
“It won’t take long,” Eurus promised. “ _ And _ it’ll be fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop some good band recs in the comments if u feel moved to.
> 
> Black Lives Matter. Here's a [link](https://blacklivesmatter.com/) to donate. Please do, if you have the means.
> 
> Remember to wash your hands, socially distance, and treat people with kindness. 
> 
> If you liked this, please check out my [website](https://muldoonstories.com/) for more stories. Also, I just made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/allierowell2/). Cards on the table, it's under a pseudonym because I'm a weirdo, but please talk to me on there ! Promise I'm nicer on there than I am on here, haha.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey.
> 
> I don't actually know if anyone reads things that focus on Sherlock, anymore. I just tend to focus in on things, and they'll swirl around until they turn into big messes that I attempt to sort out with my shitty writing.
> 
> Anyway, as a shout into a void goes: I'm working on the other things that are works in progress on my page, as well. Sometimes I just can't help the things I focus on, though, and this was one of these things.
> 
> Self-isolation isn't going so well for me. I just felt like I needed to say that to someone, and if it's to the zero people who read end notes, then that's well enough for me. I just feel so trapped and unhealthy, and I think it's tearing me down. Better than COVID tearing me down, though!! Fuck, man.
> 
> Should I get a tumblr or something to advertise shitty things that I write? This is a PollEverywhere, I guess. Let me know, lol.
> 
> New chapters of the Star Wars and Stranger Things shit coming soon!! Just in case anyone actually cares.
> 
> K. Bye. Stay safe and social distance, for the love of GOD.
> 
> Also: If you liked this, please check out my [website](https://muldoonstories.com/) for more stories. Also, I just made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/allierowell2/). Cards on the table, it's under a pseudonym because I'm a weirdo, but please talk to me on there ! Promise I'm nicer on there than I am on here, haha.


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